A/N: In my other stories, I didn't have any disclaimers. So here is me confessing that I do not, never did and never will own Laurie Halse Anderson's Wintergirls or Glee or anything else I write. I'm too suckish and not professional to write my own awesome stories or shows. *cries* This is : where you write down your fan fiction dreams.

So here's some thoughts of I-want-to-be-thinner Lia-Lia. If you haven't, check my other Wintergirls fanfic, Skinniest, out. It's sad, I warn you.

Oh and I'm done with reading the book. It's beautiful. :')

They say that other people also go through with what I'm going through. But I don't believe a word they say.

I look around me. In the halls. In the mall. In the public playground which is a block away. I see happy people. I see content people. I see people in love. I see scary-looking dudes petting the rears of girls who have artificial chests, consumed with lust and nothing else. I see naïve people. I see fat people. I see ugly people that aren't aware of their appearance. I see gay kids being spat on by closeted gay kids. I see people who are best friends with gluttony. I see thick legs and big arms. I see people who are afraid of the word "gym" and "diet".

I just want to feel alive.

The dusk is swallowing the area and I'm sleepy. I'm hungry but I can't and won't and don't admit to myself. I can't and won't and don't say it out loud to anyone. It's kept and locked deep in my mind. I don't even know where its dungeon is. And where's the lock? The key?

I look out the window as I shift on my bed so that I can wrap my bony arms around my bony legs. The scene is sad. It saddens even my soul but I won't say a word about it. My stomach groans and complains but I ignore it and pretend that I don't know what a stomach is.

I don't want to turn into a lifeless toothpick but I can't and won't and don't admit it to myself. My fingers are pale and rough and ugly to look at. My hipbones jut out too much and they feel like they're going to release themselves from my body and fly across the room and into my father and Jennifer's bedroom. I already hear their screams and shouts, telling me I lied to them and that lying is bad. But am I even good?

You can see my ribs. You can reach out and touch them. Poke. I won't respond. I'll just stand there, waiting for the Armageddon. Invisible tears will pour down my defined cheekbones. Very quiet sobs and whimpers will make my body thrash inside. I'm praying inside. I'm the exact opposite when it comes to outside appearances.

My body tells me to stop what I'm doing. It sings to me to eat an entire buffet and join the maybe existent cannibalism gang. I could eat the whole world. But I can't and won't and don't. I'm stronger than that, aren't I?

I look for that random book about a wild, possessed tribe leader which I wasn't really reading. I find it and flip through the countless of words on each page. I stop on one random page halfway through the book and pretend to read. I stare at the words, willing them to fly out of the paper that used to be a part of a tree. I weep for the tree, mentally slaughtering the person or the people who took it down. I weep invisibly.

I decide to shut the book and throw it on the table. It lands with a soft thud and just sits there, begging to be picked up again. I feel like burning it but that would cause too much things to happen. The house will burn and crumble down into ashes. The flames would just add to the chances of global warming. A part of the globe is already burning, dammit. My parents or Jennifer or whoever wouldn't kill me because I'd be dead already. I'm actually dead right now. So, there's no need to kill your daughter with loud and boring and repetitive lectures. And therapy. Parents, dears, you don't need to pay a stranger to help or fix me. I'm too broken and shattered already for that. Band-aids won't do, father. Sleepovers and slumber parties won't complete me, mother.

I swallow and taste dryness. My throat is doing its best to imitate a desert. It's doing well. My tonsils won't let anything but oxygen to pass by it. Not even water. It only allows foods and liquids to enter when forced. I only allow foods and liquids to enter when forced.

"Cassie says hello." the still air says to my thin figure.

I can't and won't and don't reply. I'm used to this very audible (probably to me only because it never seems to disturb the dead or anyone) voice. I don't know who owns it but I'm somehow grateful for its surprising visits. But I can't and won't and don't start conversations with this floating being.

I don't think I should be sleeping. It's a Saturday. Tomorrow is Sunday. I could be a lazy ass on weekends. I pinky promise, my weekends are too uneventful. If it was my birthday, I'd be in Dreamland every second. Confetti and overexcited grins await.

But it isn't my birthday. Today is just another day that passes by very quickly like a chubby, double-chinned man late on his way to work because he forgot to eat. I forget to eat all the time. Shrug here. Shrug there. No big deal to me.

I get reminded to eat sometimes. The food that gets shoved in my hands rips my throat into two pieces. It shouts to me and echoes to the pit of my stomach, making me guilty as if I did a horrible and gory crime. My body digests it and burns the fat, making sure to get rid of what could make me weigh more. Sometimes, my body won't cooperate with my mind and its wishes. I curse it without knowing I do. I torture it and give it no care. I'm doing this to my body.

"She's thinking of you." The empty air says to my expressionless face. Let her dead and frozen soul think of me. I don't care anymore. Let her insult or curse or compliment or praise me. I don't need her or her talks. I don't want to think about her yet there's this voice. I don't know where it comes from. I might be going crazy. My body is doing this to me. I curse it with my knowledge. It needs to be cursed for giving me bullshit I don't need.

Or maybe I need this crap. Maybe I need to be tortured and brought down to receive more strength and invincibility from wherever it's coming from. I don't know if I should thank my shell or curse it repeatedly and continuously more.

I'm indecisive. Why does life have to throw a lot of choices at me?

I remember the time when I was a little, giddy girl who loved to play with some other girl's Barbie dolls. I wanted to join pageantries. But I wanted to be a ballerina someday so why not start early? Oh wait, I wanted to be a queen who waved a single hand slowly and elegantly. No, I wanted to be a nursery teacher because the nursery teachers who taught me half of the alphabet were all happy smiles and kind words.

But what was the truth about those nursery teachers who must be wrinkly and bedridden today?

They must have been ugly. They had hidden their intense ugliness heavily under layers of make-up. Their chapped, broken lips were disguised. They either dyed their hair or wore convincing, perfect and expensive-looking wigs. They smoked and puffed out miniature gray clouds out of their pale lips, hurting the atmosphere. Their smiles were practiced and forced to look right and true. They were phonies. That was the truth. Their outside appearances were designed to change their looks. They looked like role models to look up to. But they weren't. They were monsters gnawing on wood and metal. They were created to look perfect, not to be perfect.

Role models or just models looked perfect. Some really were. Some really weren't. It was saddening to read a headline saying that the famous, talented, successful and gorgeous actress you fully supported and maybe worshipped killed herself on purpose with a sharp knife from her ten million worth mansion's sparkling kitchen. Really saddening, I must say.

But I didn't have any role models. I used to admire and praise people, yes, but I didn't look up to them. No.

I turn my head to see what's happening outside of this bedroom. But before I can do that, I see my reflection on the glass of the window my face is gazing at.

I feel like a forgotten barbecue stick, thrown away on a crowded lot. I'm being stomped on by clueless elephant feet. They can't hear my cries of agony and pain and sadness.

I'm a fat, boneless fairy whose wings can no longer carry her. My sparkle is disappearing as I stuff my thighs with extra sweet brownies. The furious queen of all sophisticated fairies with fake fingernails will take away my fairy dust. My wings will shrink and crumble into nothing. I'm homeless and forbidden to return to where all the thin seductresses are. I'm not one of them.

If you look at it, I'm also a pale vampire. I'm thirsty for blood but can't really have it. I'm disgusted with myself and I'm a monster. Nobody will understand.

I'm a mummy, forgotten and wrapped away in a black tomb. I'm useless now. I may be important to the people who "study" me but I'm nothingness to everyone else. Depressing, isn't it?

Someday, when this body I'm trapped in is under the ground and not functioning, my soul will eat flesh with giant-sized blueberry muffins. I could eat and eat and eat without stopping or worrying about my weight. My weight won't matter anymore because it wouldn't exist. I'll be lighter than air. Maybe helium? Zeeeeeeeeeeeero.

My life seems to be near to its Armageddon, its apocalypse. It will crumble under the pressure of the glare of the gods it doesn't believe in. Strawberry-filled twinkies will twirl in my old ballerina shoes, closely watching the drool in my mouth. My dreams are hell.

When I used to be a little innocent girl, my happy parents kept feeding me regularly: Chicken, cabbage soup, meat loaf, chocolate ice cream, shrimp, fudge bar, lasagna, homemade spaghetti, hotcake, apple, orange juice. I was categorized and labeled the girl who was "chubby". I wanted to be skinny, so I became skinny with–


My eyes aren't blind when it comes to seeing her ghost. She slithers her way up to my room, counting her nonexistent breaths. She's the nightmare of a bedtime story, the dream of a lonely lullaby. She has no prince beautifully sitting on a white horse. She has a dungeon keeper who doesn't keep her. She escapes successfully every time. She haunts unknown wintergirls around the world. She lulls them to sleep, inserting splendidly written dark skies in their broken heads. They'll scream curses in their sleep, to the white ceiling above their sweating bodies. Their parents will worry and hide from the exorcism. They're too cowardly to do anything. Cassie will grin proudly behind their backs for what she did and for what she does. But nobody will praise her for what her new hobby is. She'll just be repetitive and patient as she waits for more wintergirls to join her in the haunting of dreams. I don't know if I'm sorry for them. For her.

I don't know anything anymore.